


i would've married you in vegas (had you given me the chance to say i do)

by mychem



Category: Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Coming Out, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24395356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mychem/pseuds/mychem
Summary: Taron frowns. “What's that?”“What?” Taron nods at Richard’s hand, and Richard looks down with a frown, crease between his brows deepening when he holds his hand up. “Uh. A ring? Dunno. Must’ve got it last night.” He drops his hand and looks back at Taron with a shrug.“Huh,” Taron says, bringing his hand up to rake through his (really fucking greasy) hair. Richard frowns again, and nods at Taron.“What’sthat?” he asks, and Taron blinks, and brings his (greasy) hand down in front of him.Right there, on his ring finger, is a thin gold band.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Comments: 25
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> okay hi! this is my first ever madderton fic so please be gentle. also i have fucked with timelines to the nth degree so ignore that i dont think they were ever in vegas but if there's any place to get accidentally married its gotta be vegas. should've made it london so i wouldn't have to google Do Americans Have/Say/Do X every two minutes but vegas is too iconic

Someone’s, like, slamming a hammer against the wall, and Taron groans, winces as he rolls over, burrowing into the pillow. It’s making his head hurt, and he just wants to fucking  _ sleep. _

“Taron?” he hears, and wonders how the fuck whoever it is managed to get their voice to about three thousand decibels. “Richard?” There’s more slamming, and Taron’s sleep-deprived mind finally catches up with his ears and identifies it as someone knocking on the door.

“Mmh,” Taron groans again, squeezing his eyes shut to try and combat his pounding headache. 

“Are you up?” the voice yells again, and Jesus fucking Christ, Taron’s either suddenly developed superhuman hearing, or this person is shouting right in his ear. 

“Yeah,” he hears a voice on his left croak out. 

“You’ve got twenty minutes ‘til breakfast,” the voice calls, and then there are footsteps echoing in the hallway followed by sweet, sweet, silence. Taron makes another noise of discontent, trying to swallow away the dry taste in his mouth and go back to sleep, but someone shakes his shoulder gently. 

“Taron?” 

“Ngh,” he manages. 

“We’ve got to get up, mate.” 

“Mmf.” 

“C’mon, T,” Richard coaxes, tugging at Taron’s shoulder slightly, and Taron lets himself be pulled, rolling over onto his back and opening his eyes a crack. The bright light filtering through the shitty hotel curtains cuts straight to his searing headache, and he groans again and squeezes his eyes shut. Fucking hell. 

“Don’t wanna,” he mumbles. “Head hurts.” Richard snorts, and there’s the sound of padding feet as he walks across the room, presumably to pick up some clothes. 

“Not surprised,” Richard says. “You drank enough to make a Soctsman blush last night.” Taron makes a vague noise of discontent, but opens his eyes again, blinking and squinting into the light. He can just about make out Richard in the corner of the room, looking slightly tired and worse for wear but still - well, like Richard Madden, which frankly is the best Taron thinks anyone could possibly look. Taron probably looks like shit. 

“Do I look like shit?” he asks. Richard throws him an amused glance. 

“Not half as bad as you should,” he says, and Taron struggles into a seated position, swallowing down the bile that rises in his throat as his stomach lurches. 

“Well, I  _ feel _ like shit,” he says, and Richard hums noncommittally as he picks up a t-shirt and heads for the bathroom. He passes through the light of the window on the way, and something glints, hitting Taron directly in the eye. Taron frowns. “‘s that?” 

“What?” Taron nods at Richard’s hand, and Richard looks down with a frown, crease between his brows deepening when he holds his hand up. “Uh. A ring? Dunno. Must’ve got it last night.” He drops his hand and looks back at Taron with a shrug. 

“Huh,” Taron says, bringing his hand up to rake through his (really fucking greasy) hair. Richard frowns again, and nods at Taron. 

“What’s  _ that? _ ” he asks, and Taron blinks, and brings his (greasy) hand down in front of him. 

Right there, on his ring finger, is a thin gold band. 

“Oh,” he says, and his stomach churns. “Uh.” 

“T,” Richard says slowly. “Did we-” 

“Surely not,” Taron says, as Richard frowns back down at his own hand and tugs at the ring. “We wouldn’t’ve-”

“I mean, we  _ are  _ in Vegas-”

“But we’re not-”

“Shit,” Richard says, holding his ring in the air. “Shit, shit.  _ Fuck. _ ” 

“What?” Taron asks, panicked, twisting at the ring on his own finger, but it won’t come  _ off. _ Richard looks at him for a moment, brow creased, and then tosses him the ring. Taron scrambles for it on the bed, willing himself not to throw up all over the white sheets, and flips the ring over with fumbling, sweaty fingers. There’s an inscription on the inside, and he squints at it, trying to read it in the mild early morning sunlight. 

_ T + Dickie / 19.06.19 _

Shit. 

Fuck. 

He stares back up at Richard, who’s looking at Taron with something between stress and concern on his face, like he’s waiting to see what Taron’s got to say about all this. About their potential  _ marriage. _

“I’m going to be sick,” is all Taron manages to get out, throwing the duvet aside and sprinting to the bathroom. 

\-------

Richard rubs his back while he throws up what feels like all the fluids in his body, because of course he does, and when Taron finally sits back against the wall with a weak sigh, tears streaming down his face and stomach aching from the effort of throwing up, Richard presses a glass of lukewarm water and two paracetamol into his hands. 

“Small sips,” he tells Taron, like Taron’s never been sick before, and then presses a kiss to the top of Taron’s sweaty, greasy head. 

Taron manages to brush his teeth and shower, leaning against the wall for support, and Richard’s laid out his day’s clothes for him when he stumbles out of the bathroom, feeling a little better having washed the thin sheen of sweat off himself. Richard’s sat on his bed, doesn’t say a word while Taron gets dressed. Taron gets it - he’s not sure what to say either. Where the  _ fuck _ do they begin with this? 

“Dex is waiting for us at breakfast,” Richard says eventually, when Taron’s looping his belt through his jeans. Taron nods, then winces at the way the movement hurts his head. 

“Jesus Christ,” he says, with feeling. “I’m too old to drink like that.” Richard snorts, pushing himself off the chair and grabbing their room key, slipping it and his ring into his pocket. 

“Try not to throw up over the croissants,” he tells Taron as he pulls the door open, who settles for just flipping him off. 

The lift’s already on their floor, and Taron tips his head back against the wall as Richard presses the button for the ground floor, letting his eyes flutter closed as the bright, artificial light tries to worm its way past the paracetamol. 

“You might want to take that off,” Richard says after a moment, and Taron opens his eyes again, turns to look at him. 

“Hm?” Richard nods down at Taron’s hands, and Taron looks down to see shit, yeah, he’s still got the ring on. He wrestles with it for a moment, but it still won’t fucking come off, refuses to budge past his knuckle. 

“Shit,” he says, and holds his hand out to Richard. “Can you try?” Richard brings his hands up, holding Taron’s fingers gently in his own as he frowns at the ring, twists it this way and that, and Taron tries his best to focus on the ring and not the warmth of Richard’s fingers against his own. 

“‘S no good, mate,” Richard says, and the lift doors ding open just as he drops Taron’s hand. 

“Well, fuck,” Taron says, trying to quell the panic rising in his chest. “Put yours back on, then.” 

“What?” 

“I’m not going to be the only one with a wedding ring on,” Taron says, an edge of hysteria to his voice. Richard throws him a strange look, but slips the ring out of his pocket and puts it back on his finger. 

“Better?” he asks, and a slightly hysterical laugh bubbles out of Taron. Yeah,  _ better. _ Not like they’ve maybe just got fucking  _ married,  _ or anything. 

“Fuck,” he says, following Richard out of the lift. and the doors almost shut on him as he goes. Fucking hell. He’s never been a big believer in signs from God, but today is proving him wrong. 

The breakfast room is pretty full, but Taron just follows in Richard’s wake, heading for a table in the far corner that’s got Dex and Jamie sat at it already, chatting animatedly about the merits and drawbacks of cream cheese, breaking off when they spot Richard and Taron. 

“Morning,” Jamie says, a note of amusement in his voice. 

“Morning,” Richard replies smoothly, sitting down and unfolding his napkin. Taron throws himself down in the spare chair heavily, swallowing as the smell of bacon hits him and his stomach rolls. 

“Not hungry, Taron?” Dex asks teasingly, and Taron groans. 

“Fuck you,” he mumbles. “Just threw up.”

“Nice,” Jamie says, sounding disgusted. “Thanks for that, mate.” 

“What’s that?” Dex asks curiously, and Taron glances at him questioningly. Dex lifts his knife, points to Taron’s hand, and Taron swallows again. 

“So,” he says carefully, looking over at Richard, who nods. “Uh. We...we might have got married last night? We’re not sure.” Dex’s knife clatters to the floor, and the two ladies at the table next to them turn around to glare at them. 

“You did  _ what? _ ” Jamie says, mouth agape. 

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised it happened, but I  _ am  _ surprised it happened like that,” Dex says, staring first at Taron and then at Richard. 

“Congratulations?” Jamie tries. 

“What?” Taron says. “No, we didn’t- hang on, what d’you mean, you’re not surprised it-” his indignant question is cut off by Richard. 

“It was an accident,” Richard says diplomatically, shooting Taron a look. Taron scowls, but he feels like he might throw up again, so he doesn’t push it. 

“An accident?” Dex says doubtfully. 

“Pretty sure that doesn’t happen in real life,” Jamie says nonchalantly, reaching for another croissant. Taron folds his arms and opens his mouth to retort, but Dex cuts in before he has a chance. 

“You’ll have to take the rings off for today,” he says. “Press won’t want to talk about the film if they see you both walking around with wedding rings on.” 

“Can’t,” Taron grits out. 

“What d’you mean, you can’t?” 

“Well, when a man loves a man-” Jamie starts with a smirk, and Taron is seriously going to throttle him the minute he doesn’t feel like he’s going to throw up if he makes the slightest movement. 

“Taron’s won’t come off his hand,” Richard says. 

“So why are you wearing yours?” Richard hesitates.

“Mine either,” he says after a beat. Taron kind of loves him. 

“How’d you get them on, then?” Jamie asks shrewdly. 

“What’s with the fucking Inquisition?” Taron demands hotly, and Jamie rolls his eyes, but he’s still grinning, like this whole thing is fucking hilarious and not straight out of one of Taron’s nightmares. 

“Well, find a way to get them off before press,” Dex says, with an air of finality, and none of them dare argue with him. 

\-------

Press starts at twelve, and at ten-thirty, Taron’s hand is raw, wet, slimy from soap, red from rubbing, and his headache’s starting up again. Richard had found a piece of paper which he’d handed to Taron wordlessly as he’d been scrubbing at his fingers, and Taron had only seen the words  _ Marriage Certificate _ before swallowing and turning back to his fingers again, staring at them steadfastly and scrubbing a little harder than before. 

“It’s not going to fucking come off,” he snaps, when Richard suggests using shampoo as a last resort, and then immediately feels bad for snapping. He sighs, turns off the water, and leans over the sink so he won’t have to look at Richard. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and then there’s a hand on the small of his back, rubbing small, soothing circles. 

“It’s okay, T,” Richard says calmly. 

“How are you not freaking out?” Taron asks, a little bitterly, but he leans into Richard’s touch.

“Who said I’m not?” Richard says, and Taron turns to look at him, blinking up at him. 

“Sorry,” Taron says again, and he means  _ sorry for being such a drama queen, sorry that you have to take care of me, sorry that we got fucking married.  _

“‘S alright,” Richard says, understanding the gravity behind the word, because he always does. “It is what it is.” Taron squeezes his eyes shut and rests his forehead on Richard’s shoulder. It’s warm, and Richard smells like cedar and pine and incense, and Taron inhales deeply, the scent steadying him, grounding him. 

“Could get it sawn off?” he suggests, muffled by Richard’s t-shirt. 

“You think?” Richard says, and Taron nods. “Yeah, maybe. Should I look for a jeweller?” Taron nods again, and Richard presses a soft kiss to the top of his head before stepping away from Taron and fishing his phone out of his pocket. Taron reaches for the hand towel to dry his red, throbbing hand, rubbing a little harder than necessary in one last vain attempt to get the ring off. 

“I’ll ring them and ask,” Richard says, stepping out of the bathroom when Taron makes a vague noise of agreement. Taron sighs, and drags his eyes up to look at his reflection. Jesus, he looks like shit. He’s got dark rings under his eyes, skin looking sallow and pale, and looks like he hasn’t slept since the day of his birth. Fucking hell. 

He downs another two paracetamol, because he’s past caring about his liver at this point, and wanders out into the hotel room. 

“...hour or so?” Richard’s saying, brow furrowed, nodding as he listens to whatever the person on the other end is saying. “Brilliant. Cheers, mate.” He hangs up, then looks over at Taron. 

“So?” Taron prompts. 

“There’s a place about twenty minutes’ drive from here,” Richard says. “They can see us in an hour.” Taron nods, throwing himself down on his bed with more than a little melodrama. Whatever, he thinks. Given the circumstances, it’s pretty understandable. 

“How the fuck do we get divorced?” he says, and the words feel like acid in his mouth. Although, to be fair, that could just be the bile. 

“Dunno,” Richard says, and there’s something unreadable in his tone. Fucking actors, Taron thinks, a little enviously, because three years at RADA had done nothing for his poker face. “One step at a time, though, yeah, T? Rings first, divorce later.” 

“Right,” Taron repeats, blinking up at the ceiling. “Divorce later.” There’s a moment of silence, and then both of them snort. 

“Jesus Christ,” Richard says, amusement and incredulity clear in his tone. “We’re fucking married.” 

“Yeah,” Taron says, grinning up at the ceiling as the sheer  _ ridiculousness _ of the situation starts to set in. “Lucky you, mate.” 

(He gets a cushion chucked at him for his efforts, but figures he probably deserved it.) 

\-------

Everything starts feeling like it might be okay until half eleven. 

Taron’s headache abates, as does the churning in his stomach, and he brushes his teeth again just to get the remnants of the taste of bile out of his mouth. Richard shouts honeymoon suggestions at him through the bathroom door as he does, and Taron nearly chokes on his toothbrush when Richard suggests  _ blowjobs on the beach? We’re in LA next week, aren’t we? _ and then giggles at Taron’s reaction. It feels a little less scary when they’re making fun of it, coming up with the most ludicrous ideas to tell the divorce judge, when Taron makes a particularly lewd joke and Richard mock-gasps, tells him he would never have married him if he’d known about Taron’s potty mouth. 

They bicker all the way from the hotel room to the lobby about whether or not Richard should get his sawn off too, or whether he should keep the ring as a memento (Taron doesn’t see the point in getting a perfectly good ring sawn off if Richard can just take it off, but Richard thinks it’d be more symbolic if they both got them sawn off), and Taron’s so caught up in trying to explain exactly  _ how  _ much money Richard could probably get for that ring on eBay, and Richard’s grinning and shaking his head, pushing through the doors of the hotel, when they’re hit with flashes that Taron recognises immediately as cameras. 

_ Shit.  _

“Shit,” he says, reaching for Richard on automatic pilot, but Richard’s one step ahead of him, a hand already on the small of his back, guiding him through the crowd. 

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, and Taron can barely hear him over the shouts of  _ is it true you’re married? Did you get married last night? Congratulations, can we get a statement? _ A car’s waiting for them at the end of the steps, and Richard holds the door open for Taron, who clambers into the car a little dizzily, unsure what the fuck is going on. 

“What the fuck?” he demands, when Richard slides in next to him, slams the door shut, and recites an address to the driver. 

“I don’t know, mate,” Richard says, and he sounds just as stressed as Taron feels. Taron holds a hand out, fingers splayed, and Richard slots his fingers between them, squeezing gratefully. 

“Check Twitter,” Taron suggests, because Twitter always knows what’s going on in Taron’s life before he does. Richard nods, lifts his hips off the seat and uses his free hand to slide his phone out of his pocket. 

“Shit,” he says, eyes widening as he scrolls. 

“What?” Taron says, craning his neck to try and see what Richard’s looking at. Richard tilts his phone for Taron to see. 

_ #MADDERTONMARRIAGE _

_ #RichardMadden and #TaronEgerton _

_ #Madderton _

_ #CONGRATSMADDERTON _

“What the fuck?” Taron says again, and Richard clicks on a photo, zooming in for Taron to see. It’s a grainy photo, could be fucking anyone, of what Taron can see is the two of them laughing drunkenly as they head into a Vegas chapel. 

“That could be anyone,” Taron says, and Richard swipes to the right, to a picture that’s still grainy but very,  _ very _ clearly Taron gazing lovingly up at Richard, fond grin on his face as Richard gestures wildly, clearly saying something animatedly. Taron’s stomach drops. 

“Oh,  _ shit, _ ” he says. “Shit. When the fuck did those get released? Why didn’t Dex know? Why’s no one told us?” Richard clicks off the photos with a tight shrug, scrolls back on something on his phone. 

“Looks like it was about twenty minutes ago,” he says, and before Taron has the chance to respond, his own phone starts ringing. He lets go of Richard’s hand, because he needs both hands to get his phone out of his pocket, wriggling as he fishes it out to see  _ Dex Fletcher _ lighting up the screen.

“Fuck,” he says, and answers. “Hello?”

“You two had better be out doing some fucking damage control,” Dex says. 

“We’re on our way to get our rings sawn off,” Taron says. 

“Well, you can’t do that now,” Dex says. “Everyone thinks you’re married.” 

“We  _ are _ married.” 

“You know what I mean,” Dex says, and Taron can just imagine the way he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can’t get married and divorced in a day, Taron. Especially not during  _ press. _ ”

“So, what, you want us to pretend?” Taron says, and Richard shoots Taron a panicked look and mouths  _ no, absolutely not. _ Taron nods at him. “Richard says we’re not doing that.” 

“Pretend?” Dex says, a hint of amusement in his tone now. “Taron, you and I both know that none of what you do with Richard is pretending.” 

“Jesus, shut the fuck up,” Taron hisses, switching his phone to his other hand and turning the volume down hastily, glancing at Richard, who’s staring at him with a furrowed brow. 

“Do  _ not _ get those fucking rings sawn off,” Dex warns, and then there’s a beep as he hangs up. Taron stares at his home screen in disbelief.

“What’d he say?” Richard says. 

“Doesn’t want us to get them sawn off,” Taron says. 

“What?” 

“I know.” 

“So, what, we just pretend to be fucking  _ married? _ Has he gone  _ insane? _ ” Richard sounds a little hysterical, and Taron places his hand on Richard’s thigh, stroking his thumb over Richard’s leg reassuringly as he frowns, considering. 

They've both said they want to come out at some point, but there's never been a good moment. The more Taron's thought about it, the more he's realised that there's _never_ going to be a good moment; the world's never going to present him with a perfect opportunity to stand up and say _hey, by the way, I'm bisexual._ There's always going to be a new movie to promote, a new round of press, _something_ that gives him an excuse to say next time, later, in a few months. Plus, if they deny it now and then come out later, they're going to be accused of queerbaiting, and there's going to be _two_ shitstorms to deal with rather than just the one. And, a little voice in the back of his mind says selfishly, pretending to be married to Richard would be more of a dream than a burden.

“Maybe it’s not the worst idea,” he says slowly, and Richard stares at him in disbelief. 

“No, it is,” he says. "It's the worst idea I've ever heard."

“Well, look, both of us wanted to come out at some point, right? What if we just...do it like this?” 

“Are you fucking  _ mad, _ T?” Richard demands. 

“Look,” Taron says. “Either we come out now, have a happy little marriage for a while, then say we realised we were better off as friends, or we deny everything now, cause a fucking shitstorm, and then have to come out later to even  _ more _ of a shitstorm.” Richard opens his mouth furiously, and then shuts it again. 

“I don’t want to come out like this,” he says, and Taron watches the muscles in his jaw flex as he grits his teeth. 

“Me either, mate, but I also don’t want to be accused of queerbaiting and then have to come out all over again in a few months,” Taron says tiredly. Richard exhales heavily, and tips his head back against the seat. Taron keeps stroking his thumb over Richard’s thigh, knowing that he just needs a moment, waiting for him to get his thoughts in order. It’s kind of unnerving how quickly him and Richard have fallen into step like this, how in sync they already are, but Taron supposes that's just what happens when you meet someone like Richard.

“Fine,” Richard says quietly, and Taron’s heart leaps. “We’ll do this, pretend we’re fucking married, and then get a quiet divorce in a few months.” 

“Deal,” Taron says, holding his pinky finger out for Richard to shake. Richard looks at it, rolls his eyes, but there’s the faint ghost of a smile playing at his lips when he grips it with his own, and shakes. 

“Deal.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i maybe a little overinvested? yes. do i have too much time on my hands now that i've almost graduated? also yes. is this a bad combination? absolutely

The car gets them back to the hotel for quarter to twelve, and they take the back entrance this time. Taron feels kind of overwhelmed by that, even though it’s something small and insignificant; it’s a jarring reminder that he’s not just Taron from Aberystwyth anymore, and doesn’t gel with the idea he has of himself. He doesn’t _feel_ like Taron the Movie Star, capital letters included, doesn’t feel like the kind of person that has to avoid paparazzi and press and invasive questions. 

Richard follows him out of the car and into the labyrinth that makes up the underbelly of the hotel, strangely quiet as they’re led through the twisting corridors and artificial lights and up a few flights of concrete stairs. Taron tries his best not to think about what Richard’s saying with his silence, because press starts in fifteen minutes and he doesn’t have time to schedule a quick breakdown. Instead, he mentally pencils it in for six with a question mark, since it's right before they'll probably go for dinner. 

“Right,” Dex says, when they’re led into the room that’s been allocated for interviews. “I’ve spoken to Elton.” Taron’s stomach twists uncomfortably. Shit. This is _Elton’s_ film, _Dex’s_ film, and Taron’s inability to handle his liquor is going to overshadow all the hard work Dex has put into it, going to overshadow _Elton John_. Fucking hell. This is a mistake. He can come out later; this isn’t more important than the last two years of Dex’s life, than Elton’s entire story. 

“Dex-” he begins, but Dex holds up a hand, shakes his head. 

“Don’t want to hear it, Taron,” he says. 

“But-” 

“No,” Dex says, cutting him off. “We’ve got ten minutes, and we need a game plan. Be melodramatic in your own time.” 

“Dex, I really-” 

“T,” Richard says warningly, and Taron clenches his teeth, but swallows down the _I really don’t think this is the best idea. The movie comes first_ that had been on the tip of his tongue. 

“Right,” Dex says, all business, clapping his hands together. “So, like I said, I spoke to Elton. He’s all for this. I believe his actual words were ‘thank fuck they got their heads out of each other’s arses’, pardon my French.” Taron opens his mouth, to say what he’s not entirely sure - _fuck Elton_? Yeah, not happening - but Richard shoots him a cautioning glance, and he closes it again, gritting his teeth. 

“Okay,” Richard says, smooth, businesslike, not betraying a hint of second-guessing. “So, how do we twist it back to the film?” 

“I’d say you offer to do one interview about your marriage, and then refuse to answer any further questions,” Dex says. Richard nods. 

“Who with?” he says. Dex glances down at a sheet of paper. 

“Guardian?” he suggests. “They usually send someone halfway sensible.”

“Right,” Richard says, pursing his lips, a calculating expression on his face. “Should we do them first, or last?” 

“I’d say first,” Dex says. “They were supposed to be second, anyway. That way, they can get all the details out, and the other interviews about the film will follow in a few days and won’t be swallowed up in it.” 

“Okay,” Richard says, nodding again. Taron blinks. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to feel about the fact that Richard just negotiated this entire thing on his behalf, but he’s pretty sure the mixture of relieved and incensed isn’t it. 

“I’ll go and tell the Times,” Dex says, and heads out of the room. The door clicks shut behind him, and there’s a moment of uncomfortable silence before Richard turns to Taron.

“Okay, T,” he says, sounding like he’s steeling himself for what’s coming. “What’s our story?” 

“Eh?” Taron asks. 

“Well, they’re going to ask how we met, first date, first kiss, all of that kind of stuff,” Richard says. “We’ve got five minutes to come up with something.” Taron’s stomach drops. 

“Shit,” he says. “Oh, fuck. Uh…” he bites his lip. It’ll probably be easier for him to remember if he keeps it as close to the truth as possible. “I’ll say, uh, I realised I liked you when we went for lunch the first week of shooting?” 

“I’ll say it was when I saw you in Abbey Road,” Richard says, and he looks so sincere that it sends a confused mixture of both adrenaline and sadness shooting through Taron’s veins. If fucking only, he thinks bitterly. 

“And our first date can be...the night we went out with Jamie, remember?” Richard’s lips quirk up in a smile. 

“Yeah, and he went home at _eight p.m.,_ fucking tosser,” he says, and Taron snorts.

“Mate, we were fucking _pissed,_ ” he says, and then winces as the memory of the next day’s hangover hits him like a sledgehammer. Richard watches the emotions cross his face, and laughs. 

“Surprised you bloody remember it,” he says, a note of amusement in his voice. 

“Don’t remember the night, _definitely_ remember the hangover,” Taron says, and Richard grins.

“Rich? Taron?” Dex calls through the door, and Taron’s face drops.

“Okay, first kiss, that evening,” he says quickly, because he can’t think of anything better, and Richard nods tightly. 

“We realised we were it for each other early on, hence the quick wedding,” he says. 

“And we kept our relationship secret because of the homophobia in the industry,” Taron adds. Richard raises an eyebrow, but nods again. 

“Taron?” Dex shouts again. 

“Yeah,” Taron shouts back, not taking his eyes off Richard, and swallowing. Richard puts both hands on Taron’s shoulders, and smiles softly at him. 

“Breathe, T,” he says, slow and gentle. “It’s just acting.” _Yeah, for you, mate,_ Taron thinks, a little derisively, but he nods. 

“It’s just acting,” he repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself. Richard grins at him, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and he presses a quick kiss to Taron’s forehead before stepping away, arms dropping to his side. 

It’s just in time, because the door opens and a guy’s walking through, smiling at them, and Dex is throwing them a look that Taron _thinks_ means ‘don’t fuck this up or I’ll kill you’, but could also just mean ‘I can’t believe you got fucking married during our press tour, I’m going to fucking kill you’. Both are kind of fair enough, Taron thinks. 

“Morning,” the reporter says, introducing himself as James as Taron and Richard sit down in the two plastic seats set up for them and fumble awkward handshakes. “Thanks very much for granting the Guardian this exclusive interview.” 

“Wasn’t expecting the Guardian to be in Vegas, honestly,” Taron says, because he has no idea how else to answer it other than to sidestep the question. James grins, pulling a sheet of paper out of his bag. 

“So, first of all, congratulations,” James says, and both Richard and Taron incline their heads, murmur very British thank-yous. “I thought it would be easiest if I just asked a few leading questions but let you two tell your story in your own words?” Taron glances at Richard, trying to communicate _can you take the lead on this one, then?_ and Richard nods imperceptibly at him before turning back to James and nodding, polite smile on his face. 

“Of course,” Richard says gracefully, and Taron shifts a little closer, presses his thigh to Richard’s, seeking some kind of grounding, some kind of reassurance that this is going to be okay. He feels Richard tense a little, but after a moment he relaxes, and brings his hand up to rub across Taron’s thigh almost absent-mindedly. It’s to look convincing, Taron tells himself, chanting it over and over as he tries to focus on whatever James is saying rather than the warm feeling of Richard’s thumb stroking Taron’s leg. 

“...together?” is all Taron manages to catch, but Richard’s already answering before Taron has the chance to ask James to repeat himself. 

“Well,” Richard says, shooting Taron a look. “It’s been quite a whirlwind romance, hasn’t it, love?” Taron swallows. It’s nothing, he reminds himself. Richard’s probably called his driver, his makeup artist, his stylist and Dex ‘love’ before getting to Taron. 

“Yeah, you could say that,” Taron manages, and Richard grins at him, squeezes his thigh a little, and turns back to James. 

“I realised the very first time I met him,” Richard says, and there’s a note of fondness to his voice. “I turned up at Abbey Road, and he was recording-” 

“Bennie and the Jets,” Taron supplies, because he remembers that day, remembers glancing out of the recording booth halfway through the second verse and faltering when he’d seen _Richard fucking Madden_ staring back at him, eyes dark, a small smile on his lips. 

“-Bennie and the Jets,” Richard confirms. “I don’t think there’s anything I could have done other than fall for him after hearing that.” Taron’s heart skips a beat, and he forces a smile. 

“It was a little later for me,” he says. “First week of shooting. We went for lunch, and he spilt his drink all over himself. First time I saw past the façade.” Richard shoots him a slightly amused look. 

“Façade?” he asks, and Taron grins.

“You know, tall, dark, mysterious stranger,” he says. “You’re pretty boring once you get past the Bond-esque exterior, Madden.” Richard rolls his eyes. 

“You’re a little shit,” he tells Taron, but he’s smiling too. 

“And it blossomed from there?” James prompts. Taron stiffens; they haven’t rehearsed this bit. 

“It did,” Richard confirms easily, ever the Oscar-worthy actor. “Our first date was a week later-”

“Inadvertently,” Taron puts in. “We were out with Jamie, but he went home at eight to- what was it? Feed his cats, or something?” Richard snorts, and Taron can’t suppress the smile playing at his lips - Jamie’s going to kill him for that, but it’s worth it to make Richard smile. 

“Be with his wife, I believe,” Richard says diplomatically, but his eyes are lit up with amusement, and Taron grins. 

“Oh, yeah,” he says breezily. “That.” 

“Taron and I stayed at the pub, and - well.” Richard stops, and shrugs, and Taron hopes James can’t see the tension in the movement like Taron can. “Drinks led to a conversation.” 

“I see,” James says delicately, clearly thinking ‘conversation’ is a euphemism for what Taron wishes the drinks had _really_ led to. “And the wedding?” Richard hesitates, and Taron decides to jump in. Richard hates talking about his personal life, hates lying about it even more, whereas Taron’s more than happy to fib his little heart out. 

“We knew fairly early on that we were, as they say, ‘it’ for each other,” he says readily. “We’d been discussing marriage for a while - y’know, Richard _is_ getting on a bit-” that earns him an elbow from Richard, but he’s expecting it and doges it with a grin. “We’re not really the kind of people to get fussed about a big ceremony, and we figured Vegas was a perfect opportunity.” 

“How did you feel when you saw the images from last night?” James asks, and now this is something Taron can answer sincerely and honestly. 

“Pretty pissed off,” he says seriously. “We’ve kept our relationship a secret because of the latent homophobia in the industry, and wanted to come out on our own terms, in our own time. It’s a huge invasion of privacy - people don’t know us, don’t know who we are, but with the advent of the social media age barriers between actors and viewers get broken down, and people think they have the right to our private lives as well as our public lives. We didn’t want to come out like this, and neither of us are happy about it, which is why we’re doing this interview, and then not talking about it again. Our personal lives shouldn’t overshadow our work or our art.” There’s a brief moment of silence after he speaks, and then Richard’s squeezing his thigh again, and James is nodding. 

“Absolutely,” he agrees. “Well, I think that’s my time up. Thank you so much, again, for talking to the Guardian. And congratulations again on your wedding.” 

“Thank you,” both Richard and Taron say politely, and then there’s the usual awkward flurry of unclipping microphones and James trying not to trip over wires as he leaves. 

“Jesus Christ,” Richard says when the door shuts behind James, exhaling heavily and leaning back in his chair, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. “That was fucking horrible.” 

Taron can’t help but heartily agree, but for completely different reasons. 

\-------

The rest of the interviews go fairly smoothly - clearly a good job has been done of warning the press that they are, on pain of death, not to ask about the marriage - and Taron loses count of the number of times he has to answer his favourite Elton costume, his favourite song. He times the day by how much his stomach is rumbling, and it starts getting unbearable by what he thinks is the sixth hour of interviews, which means they must be over soon. Sure enough, Dex sidles into the room as Jamie’s saying something about how interesting it was to get into the mind of someone who’s in the foreground but simultaneously in the background and gives them a thumbs up before motioning to the interviewer to wrap up. 

After they’ve untangled the mics from their clothes and Taron’s almost fallen flat on his face tripping over wires that Jamie deftly sidestepped, Dex suggests heading for dinner. Taron can’t get the _yes, fuck, please_ out fast enough, and Jamie laughs as his stomach growls to punctuate it. 

“Drop by your room and see if Richard wants to join,” Dex suggests to Taron, and Taron nods, already halfway down the corridor because the quicker he can drag Richard down to dinner, the better. 

He takes the stairs back up to his and Richard’s room instead of waiting for the lift, jogging up them and forgetting how unfit he actually is right now, meaning he’s panting and out of breath by the time he’s fumbling with his key card in the door and opening the door. 

Richard’s not in the main part of the room, but Taron can hear a muffled voice from the bathroom, so he strides over, fully ready to bang on the door and demand Richard stops whatever he’s doing _this instant_ and accompanies Taron down to dinner, when he tunes in to what Richard’s saying. 

“... _know_ , mam,” he hears, and Richard sounds kind of pained. “I didn’t want it to be like this either, alright?” There’s a pause, and Taron hesitates, hand already poised to knock. “I know, I know. I’ll fix it, mam. _Yes_ , mam. Okay. Love you too.” A bitter taste rises in Taron’s throat. There’s only one thing Richard could possibly be talking about - Taron. 

He’s so preoccupied with the thoughts suddenly racing through his mind - what does Richard mean, he didn’t want it to be like this? What exactly needs fixing? - that he doesn’t hear the door unlock until it’s too late, and he’s standing face to face with a very confused-looking Richard Madden. 

“You eavesdropping on my phone call?” he says, voice even and calm, but Taron hears the edge of irritation. 

“Why the fuck are you ringing your mum from the toilet?” Taron shoots back. Richard fixes him with a glare. 

“Piss off,” he says shortly, and pushes past Taron into the room. Taron lets himself be pushed, swinging around with the momentum and watching Richard as he busies himself with putting his phone back in his bag. 

“D’you want dinner?” he asks, because he can’t think of anything better to say, and he really is starving. 

“Yeah,” Richard says. “With you?” 

“With everyone,” Taron says. Richard hesitates, and then nods.

“We need to talk about this,” he says, still fumbling with his bag, not looking at Taron. “Figure out how we’re going to do it.” Taron swallows. 

“Yeah,” he says, and hopes his lack of enthusiasm isn’t showing. He doesn’t want to sit down and have a transactional conversation with Richard about exactly when and where they’re going to get divorced, or whatever Richard’s got in mind. 

“After dinner?” Richard says. 

“After dinner,” Taron agrees. 

\-------

Dinner’s a tense affair. 

Taron had expected it to be tense, but not like this. He’d expected Dex to be pissed off, to tell them frankly exactly what he thinks about what they’ve done, expected Jamie to shake his head at them and mutter something under his breath about how stupid they both are, but he hadn’t expected Richard to be so unusually quiet, only speaking when spoken to and even then in quick, stilted sentences, like his mind is somewhere else. The worst of it is, though, that everybody knows full well where his mind is, and it’s sitting right in front of them: the thin gold bands on both his and Richard’s hands. 

Taron wolfs down his dinner, partially due to being fucking famished and partially for something to do that isn’t try and make conversation with a Richard that doesn’t want to play ball, and Dex fixes him with a Look when he announces that he’s kind of tired, actually, he’s going back upstairs, Richard, do you want to join? Taron steadfastly ignores it, staring at Richard, who hesitates before nodding, scraping his chair back and following Taron back up to their room. 

They don’t speak on the way, and Taron doesn’t dare try and break the silence with a stupid joke; not that he can think of one anyway. It’s not until they’re back in the room, sat on their respective beds, that Richard finally makes a noise, staring at the floor between them and sighing. 

“I don’t know if I can do this, T,” he mumbles, and it’s the most vulnerable Taron thinks he’s ever heard Richard sound. 

“What part of it?” he tries. 

“All of it,” Richard says. “I- Taron, I can’t lie to everyone like this.” Taron’s stomach bottoms out at the uncomfortable reminder that this is all just acting for Richard, and he swallows. 

“We don’t have to,” Taron says, and even he can hear how defeated he sounds. “Rich, I’m not going to force you into something you don’t want to do. Say the word, and we’ll make a statement.” Richard opens his mouth, and then closes it again, and puts his head in his hands. 

“It’s not that, T,” he says, and then sighs again. 

“Well, what is it?” Taron asks, and Richard shakes his head. “C’mon, I can’t help if I don’t know what it is.” 

“You couldn’t help even if you did,” Richard says, with a wry smile. “And either way, it’s too late to take it back now.” Taron hesitates for a moment, and then pushes himself off his bed, sits down next to Richard and slings an arm around his shoulders. Richard leans into him automatically, warm and cedar and pine, and Taron tries his best not to inhale _too_ deeply, thinking it might give off serial killer vibes. 

“We’ll get divorced as quick as you want,” Taron promises, although the words are acidic in his mouth. Richard shakes his head. 

“It’ll have to be a few months, at least,” he says, and Taron’s heart jumps. A few months with Richard sounds like every 11:11, blown eyelash, and birthday wish Taron’s made in the past year. “I just- it’s a lot. There’s a lot to consider.” He pauses. “Like, what happens when we go home?” he adds, staring at the ceiling. “Do we move in together?” 

“I-” Taron stops himself. “Shit. Yeah, I guess.” He nudges Richard with his shoulder. “Gonna make an Aberystwyth boy out of you yet.” Richard snorts at that, and the lead weight in Taron’s stomach lightens a little. 

“And what do we tell our families?” Richard asks. Taron shrugs. His mam already knows he’s head-over-heels for Richard; ‘we accidentally got married and I wanted to come out anyway and having to play the part of Richard’s husband for a few months is a pretty big perk’ won’t surprise her at all. In fact, he can already picture her exasperated eye-roll. 

“The truth, I s’pose,” he says, because that’s what he’s planning on telling his. 

“I just...how are we going to- to go about this whole thing?” Richard says. Taron hesitates. 

“Act like we’re in a happy marriage for a few months, then start getting distant, claim schedules got in the way and we’re better off as friends,” he says, with another, uncomfortable shrug. “You know how these things go.” 

“I guess this is a good thing,” Richard says, after a moment. “Means I can fly you to all of my awards season events and have someone else bear the brunt of questions in interviews.” Taron frowns, and jerks his shoulder up, forcing Richard to lift his head. 

“Oi,” he says indignantly. “I’m going to have awards events of my own to attend, thank you very much.” Richard grins at him, eyes twinkling, and the knot in Taron’s stomach loosens. They’re going to be okay. 

“We should lay down some ground rules,” Richard says. 

“Like what?” 

“Well, we’re going to have to seem believable, aren’t we?” Richard says. “So...no fucking other people for a good few months. You can’t trust anyone to keep their mouth shut.” Taron’s stomach rolls, half in joy at the idea that Richard’s going to be _his_ for a few months, that he’s not going to be seeing anyone else, and half in jealousy at the idea of Richard fucking other nameless, faceless people. 

“Won’t be a problem for me,” Taron says, gesturing at himself, “but are you sure you can withstand all your admirers, Dickie?” Richard scowls, and elbows him. 

“And we’re going to have to be...affectionate,” Richard says carefully. 

“You mean I’m going to have to drape myself all over you?” Taron says, mock-disgusted. “What a fucking _ordeal_ , mate. Touching _Richard Madden?_ Jesus, I should have renegotiated the marriage contract.” Richard snorts, and his hand darts out, aiming for the soft spot between Taron’s hips and ribs, and Taron squeals, just about managing to dodge him. 

“Bastard,” Richard says evenly, but he holds his arm out and Taron shuffles back immediately and curls up against Richard. 

“What about kissing?” Richard asks after a moment, and a noise that Taron didn’t even know he was capable of making escapes him. Richard clearly misinterprets it, because he adds: “I mean, y’know, we’re supposed to be _married,_ we can’t exactly not ever-” 

“No, mate, I know,” Taron says hastily. “You know I’m fine with kissing. You’re a good kisser.” 

“Oh, stop it,” Richard says, aiming for dramatic, but there’s a touch of real bashfulness in his tone. 

“Is that everything?” Taron says, and Richard nods, turning his head and pressing a kiss to the top of Taron’s head. 

“For now,” he says, and Taron rolls his eyes. 

“You’re such a fucking overthinker,” he says. 

“You’re an _under_ thinker,” Richard says. 

“Yin and yang,” Taron tells him, and revels in the way Richard’s lips crook up at that. 

“Yeah,” Richard says, pulling Taron closer. “Guess we are.”


End file.
